


The Fish's Tail

by the_crimson_king



Category: Nuclear Throne (Video Game)
Genre: Eggs, Fantasy, Post-Apocalypse, Time to venture into this hellscape, Western, give feedback please i need it, i need morphine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 11:28:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,559
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24849031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_crimson_king/pseuds/the_crimson_king
Summary: The story of a Fish out of water.
Kudos: 5





	The Fish's Tail

Sand. 

  
  


Sand and Dust, as far as the eye can see.

  
  


Illuminated by the Moon’s pale, silver rays, one may only see a desolate and destroyed land, filled with the night terrors of monsters and myth.

  
  


Dawn finally breaks in this dark, desolate land, and brings its harsh, scornful rays with it.

  
  


Creatures of all kinds return to their abodes, retreating from the day’s heat - and with them retreats their clamor and commotion. Silence reigns.

  
  


Yet one remains.

  
  


A guitar rings out, piercing through the morning’s somber, oppressive silence, with a slowly dying campfire’s crackles accompanying it.

  
  


A silhouette lay on its back, and strummed.

  
  


The figure had green, sand bleached scales covering him. His arms had fins on the side, chipped and yellowed as they were, and his hands had dried and torn webbing in between every last of his digits. His legs had a few fins as well, though not as pronounced as the ones on his arms and head. His neck had gills with sand stuck in every crevice, and his head had a fin on each side, with one on top to complete the trifecta. His face was sullen, sorrow written all over it in scars, with a threadbare eyepatch wrapped around one long jagged cut that stretched from forehead to cheek. A leather satchel sat on his hip, covered by a ragged poncho.

  
  


The Figure strums and plays a little melody on his guitar as the sands slowly whip across the land, along with the tune, both reaching places far and wide.

  
  


The wind blows, and the campfire dies, along with the music.

  
  


Silence returns.

  
  


The Fish slowly stands up, and slings his guitar onto his back.

  
  


He ventures forth into the sands.

  
  
  


XXX

  
  


Wild, wrathful winds whipped about as the Fish made his way across the desert.

  
  


As he walked, he allowed himself to lose himself to his musings. He had to hunt, had to eat, after all, he hadn’t touched anything in a while, and it was starting to show. 

  
  


The Fish saw something off in the horizon. An Insectoid creature, big as a bear, with a purple, spiked carapace, eight long legs, thick as tree trunks, large claws glinting in the sunlight, with edges blunted and worn yet more powerful than any blade could hope to be. Its long, curved mandibles dripped with venom, and its stinger was longer than one was tall. Yet, its eyes were the most striking feature. 

  
  


Eyes, sharp with slit pupils reflected hate in a way no words could hope to describe, they betrayed hostility to all that was not it, and almost as plentifully as the venom that dripped from its mandibles.

  
  


He dropped to the ground and eyed the creature, observing its movements as it skittered across the sands.

  
  


The creature made its path towards a small dune, spat at the earth and waited. 

  
  


Before long, the sand began to part, compelled by the biddings of an unseen actor, and a Great Armored Worm burst from the sands before collapsing onto the earth! The creature wasted no time, scrambling towards it and snapping the worm clean in half with its claws, drenching the sands with blood.

  
  


A moment passed, and the Fish decided. This creature was not worth the effort.

  
  


He slowly slipped away, taking care that the creature did not see him, and disappeared into the sands once more.

  
  


XXX

  
  


After a few hours of walking, he caught a whiff of a pungent and sickly smell before spotting its source in the distance.

  
  


Gathered around a large carcass, flies, almost as big as a hound, darted to and fro as they made the most of a free meal, while maggots wriggled about below, feasting on their shared fare. The flies boasted their usual red, kaleidoscopic eyes, though they differed in their purple chitinous plates, small spindly antenna, and mandibles as long as one’s forearm. The maggots were no less freakish, with small little teeth with bits of greenish foam coating its mouth, and were as long as one was tall.

  
  


In all, there were nine total. Three flies, and six maggots.

  
  


Perfect for a week’s meal.

  
  


He checked his revolver, 6 shots ready and loaded, though he hoped he wouldn’t have to use them. 

  
  


He pulled out his crossbow, filled with bolts and ready to fire.

  
  


He brings it to his shoulder, lining up the sights with a fly.

  
  


A bolt pierces through the gridded lenses with fluids spewing forth.

  
  


Another bolt soars through the air and pierces a flies’ head.

  
  


Enraged by the death of its comrades, the third fly rears back and charges forward.

  
  


Calmly rolling out of the insect’s path, the Fish sends a bolt flying towards its back before fluid begins to gush out of the wound.

  
  


The Fish slowly makes his way over, and confirms the kill as he salvages his bolts. 

  
  


He stalked towards the maggots as they feast on the carcass, blissfully unaware of their fate.

  
  


A sickeningly sweet smell wafted into his nose and watered his eyes, yet he did not flinch. He stalked forward unflinchingly towards his goal, towards his prize.

  
  


He sits crouched behind one of the maggots before pulling a bolt from his satchel.

  
  


He skewered the maggots one by one, stabbing into their pale white flesh noiselessly before putting the bolt back into the satchel, prize in hand.

  
  


XXX

  
  


Many miles in another direction, the Fish lies prone on top of a dune, observing a camp.

  
  


The denizens of the camp wore rags and bandages covering skin flayed red by harsh winds, even as it became bulbous and swollen. Their legs were strange things, as they looked as if they would be more suited to walking on their toes instead of their heels. Their arms and hands were unremarkable in comparison, though their fingers ended in claws instead of nails. Their faces were covered, albeit sloppily, yet he could make out a few mouths, all filled with sharp, uneven teeth that cut the lips whenever they moved to eat or speak.

  
  


They raved rowdily and unruly, stumbling about, waving their rifles and bows in the air in celebration of a successful hunt as their cargo wailed and cried for all to hear, though none came to their rescue.

  
  


The Fish turns and starts to crawl away lest he be seen, he’s seen enough to know what they’ve captured, and killing them all would leave him with nothing but a few more bullets.

  
  


“<Hey! Look over there! It’s a walking fish!>”

  
  


The Fish realizes they noticed him and crawls faster, but the bandits had already drawn their weapons.

  
  


“<Now, it would be such a shame to let such a fine meal escape! After all, I don't think you would look half bad on a spit!>” A bandit called as his comrades laughed.

  
  


The Fish turns and fires.

  
  


The first bandit falls, along with his friend standing behind him.

  
  


The bandits replied with the crack of their guns and the thwack of their bows, but the Fish had already escaped down the dune.

  
  


He returned the shots, sending out bolts blindly from the safety of the dune as they moved in to drive him out of his cover.

  
  


One bandit manages to make it to the fish, and takes aim. 

  
  


A gaping hole appeared in his stomach, with viscous red liquid oozing out as the bandit slowly collapsed.

  
  


A second bandit creeps up behind the Fish and cocked the hammer of his revolver.

  
  


“<I’ve got you now!>”

  
  


Quickly dropping to the ground, the Fish rolled to the side and positioned himself to shoot.

  
  


The bandit arched his back in pain as he fell to the ground.

  
  


Meanwhile, an unseen enemy took aim, and fired.

  
  


Pain flared up as blood spurted out of the wound in the Fish’s side, the bolt the only thing keeping it from gushing out as he held it tightly to stem the flow.

  
  


His eyes moved across the camp, scanning for the offender. 

  
  


There, hidden in the sands, two beady red eyes under a gauze wrapped visage poked out.

  
  


A bullet is soon between them.

  
  


The Fish quickly advances to find the last few enemies.

  
  


A strip of cloth pokes out from behind a tent, betraying it’s wearer’s position before a bolt ends its wearer’s life.

  
  


“<AAAAAAAAAAHH!>”

  
  


The Fish whirled around, seeing the last bandit screaming as he charged him with a rusted knife.

  
  


The butt of the crossbow put an end to the charge, and while the bandit was still dazed, the fish grabbed his knife, jammed it deep into his throat and gouged out his veins as blood splattered all over the sands.

  
  


The bandit falls to his knees, his arms still reaching out towards the Fish as he looks down at him, the expression of his face akin to pity.

  
  


A second passes.

  
  


The bandit’s misery ends.

  
  


The battle is over. He felt the adrenaline wearing off, pain flaring up, and saw a blood trail that wasn’t there before.

  
  


He grimaces, and clutches his side. Blood on his fingers and on the bolt.

  
  


Blood still spurts out. He can feel his life begin to waver with every drop that leaves him. But there, in the very center of the camp, the fire was still burning. 

  
  


He looks at the fire, then at the bolt. He grimaces, grits his teeth, and holds himself over it.

  
  


He felt a searing pain, unbearable yet bared nonetheless as the wound slowly sealed. He takes himself off the fire and breathes, before plunging himself in again. The pain is overwhelming. 

  
  


Eventually, the bleeding stemmed and wounds were patched up as he collapsed onto the ground, weary from the ordeal. 

  
  


Suddenly remembering the cages, he stood up and hobbled his way to them. The tarp covered cages were quite large and, as he got closer, the wails and cries of their captives grew louder.

  
  


“<-lease, please help my brother, he’s bleeding and I don’t think he’ll->”

  
  


The crack of the gunshot reverberates through the valley.

  
  


Low, guttural growls began to escape the cages.

  
  


The Fish walked forth, undaunted by the snarls of those imprisoned, walking by and unloading a bolt into each one.

  
  


Finally, the camp was silent. 

  
  


The Fish opened the cage to retrieve his bolts, and the corpse of a beast greeted him. Its skin was yellowed and stretched over its long twisted body, and its legs were bent in a way that made it stand on its toes at all times. The shoulders and neck were muscled unnaturally, and it had claws that were sharp like knives, and long, uneven teeth that would cut the mouth whenever moved to eat or speak.

  
  


Unfazed by the grotesque body of the beast, the Fish grasped the bolt’s shaft and pulled, sloppily extracting it and snapping it in half.

  
  


He looked at the shaft in hand and sighed, tired as he was, and made his way back to the fire.

  
  


As he sat down, he pulled out his gun, and flicked open the chamber. Grasping the rod under the barrel, he pulled it back as he rotated the barrel and ejected the spent rounds. Then he refilled the chamber, flicking it shut. 

  
  


Looking at his ammunition stocks, the Fish frowned. There weren’t many bullets left, and the bolts weren’t very plentiful either. 

  
  


He looked around, and remembered he was in the middle of a camp, the denizens of which he just killed. Looting the bodies was almost second nature. 

  
  


XXX

  
  
  


  
By the time the Fish sat back down, nightfall was fast approaching, and he desired rest.

  
  


He pulled out a maggot carcass, skewered it on a bolt, and held it over the fire.

  
  


The pale white flesh of the maggot soon took a shade of brown as a faint smell wafted off, a sign it was ready.

  
  


The flesh of the maggot was chewy and bitter. It was a disgusting taste, and the Fish soon longed for the sweet and delicious foods he once ate in his youth, though he couldn’t name any of them now.

  
  


He closed his eyes, and reminisced to take his mind off of the awful taste.

  
  


He remembered a food. They were brown bars of a sweet substance unlike any other, the crunch so satisfying to the ear when he bit into it as it melted in his mouth. It was as close to heaven as one could get. 

  
  


Eventually, the maggot was spent, its flesh consumed, along with the memories, and yet he still hungered.

  
  


The Fish unslung the guitar from his back.

  
  


He gave it a few experimental plucks and fiddled with the tuning pegs, idly wondering which song he’d play this time before making a decision. 

  
  


He breathed in, then out, and started to play.

  
  


He remembers this song, it’s melody unearthing long lost memories.

  
  


The Melody was heard by his mother, skilled in her craft, and she played it to him, young and spirited. The song enraptured him, and he eventually desired to play it himself, so he learned the guitar.

  
  


Plucking the strings was a joy and comfort to him in troubling times.

  
  


Eventually, he had a child of his own, and he played it to her. The song enraptured her, and she remembered it well into maturity.

  
  


All was good.

  
  


And then, all was no more.

  
  


A blinding flash, a searing pain, the taste of mud, and gills on his neck.

  
  


And then, all was lost. He was lost. 

  
  


His heart was lost.

  
  


So he walked. He walked far, far off into the distance, seeing sights that none had ever seen before, gory vistas of blood and broken cities of haunting beauty, searching for something to replace what was taken.

  
  


Yet, they could not fill the gaping hole in his chest. Nothing could.

  
  


His heart was lost.

  
  


And yet the song remained, even in a time of desolation and tragedy. He played it once more, in honor of what he lost.

  
  


It made him feel a little better.

  
  


But it could not mend his wounds, not completely.

  
  


Even so, he still lives, still walks, without any purpose, without any life.

  
  


And now, he walks the sands.

  
  


A tear falls from the Fish’s face and stains the sands.

  
  


There was nothing left for him here, he hadn’t spoken, hadn’t seen anyone in ages! Nobody to talk to, nobody to listen! There was nothing to do, nothing to live for! Nothing except survive, and what good was survival if not in pursuit of a goal? 

  
  


A goal is a purpose, he knows that better than anyone on this desolate wasteland and yet he lacks it. 

  
  


What purpose is left in this wretched world?

  
  


To spawn, and bring more into this wretched and hateful world? To rule over others, and take glee in control? To gain riches, hoard them all and sleep upon them?

  
  


No. They are no purposes, not for him. They did not fill him with motivation, a determination to see it done.

  
  


So there was nothing left for him. No purpose. No determination. No life. 

  
  


Nothing except the end.

  
  


He ended the song, with the chords still ringing in the air, begging to be finished.  


  


A grumble emanated from his torso.

  
  


He was still hungry.

  
  


He was still sitting on a crate, hungry and cold.

  
  


Nothing to do. 

  
  


Nothing except weep.

  
  
  



End file.
